


Much Ado About Something

by Mossyrock



Series: Ineffable Husbands Bingo [12]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), But we love him for it, Crowley is a pining mess, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands Bingo (Good Omens), M/M, Shameless Abuse of Shakespeare's Sonnets, With help from Shakespeare, Writing poems for his angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 07:08:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21352234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossyrock/pseuds/Mossyrock
Summary: Aziraphale loves to read. Crowley, not so much. But one day in the bookshop he picks up Shakespeare's sonnets. It turns out Crowley knew William a bit better than Aziraphale thought.In fact, Crowley might know some of those sonnets a little too well.For my Ineffable Husbands bingo prompt - Aziraphale's bookshop.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Husbands Bingo [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1476251
Comments: 3
Kudos: 103





	Much Ado About Something

There wasn’t much that Aziraphale liked more than a good book.

Aziraphale could easily get lost in a tome, diving into a different world and sometimes – if engrossed enough – he wouldn’t surface for days. He’d wake as if from a dream, only to discover that he hadn’t moved but to turn the page in hours. On one occasion War and Peace had stolen him for an entire week. He wouldn’t have noticed, except for the note from the bosses, announcing a new assignment. The heavenly horns had startled him so much he’d dropped the book. Luckily, it hadn’t been damaged in the fall. It was a first edition and worth rather a lot.

All of Tolkien's works had taken a month, after which he’d sworn not to start any more series or bibliographies, unless he was well stocked on snacks and had no other plans for the estimated duration. He’d missed a lunch meeting with Crowley, who had sighed and glared when Aziraphale had weakly explained why he was a few weeks late.

He’d built an entire bookshop, next door to a publisher, just to have a place to store his endless supply of beloved books. He loved his little nook of books, revelling in the smell of the knowledge and history. It was intoxicating. It was home and his happy place. Especially if he had a cup of something tea, a record on and a particular tall, red-headed being keeping him company.

Since he and Crowley had been more familiar and begun spending more time together, Aziraphale found it hard to keep his attention focussed. He’d be reading a good book – great even – but with Crowley reclining beside him on his bookshop couch, he’d slowly realise that he’d been staring around the book at his companion or had become lost in daydreams.

Usually starring the demon.

It wasn’t like Aziraphale at all. Typically, nothing could break his intense focus.

But the long, lean, lounging figure next to him seemed to bring out the worst in him. An occupational hazard of befriending a delightfully tempting demon, he supposed.

He wasn’t sure what Crowley got out of spending time with him while he read. Aziraphale had offered him the run of the bookshop. He had books from every era, in every language and every genre. But Crowley had declined. It was almost… well, not blasphemous, but it offended Aziraphale’s sensibilities, nonetheless. Why would anyone choose not to read? It seemed incomprehensible to Aziraphale, but to each their own, he supposed.

The fact he didn’t read should’ve made Crowley seem less attractive to Aziraphale. But it didn’t. Aziraphale loved him anyway. And if he wanted to nap while Aziraphale read, it just meant that Aziraphale could gaze at him without him knowing. He did look ever so sweet, asleep on the couch.

* * *

Crowley loved spending time with Aziraphale. He preferred going out to eat or doing some other fun activity, but he was happy just cooped up together in Aziraphale’s tiny back room of the bookshop. Mostly because the shop was filled with Aziraphale. Every book, knick-knack and decoration were chosen by Aziraphale to make the place his own. The very feeling of the shop was old-fashioned, warm and familiar - like the angel himself.

Aziraphale had lived through history. He’d met the figures and been to the places in all his history books. His infinite imagination could conjure far more interesting and bizarre places than any fictional book. But he read them all anyway. He always wanted to learn. He was intelligent in a way Crowley would never be. He just liked to read, and Crowley liked relaxing beside him while he did. He slipped in and out of sleep whenever he felt the desire, but mostly he just daydreamed or played little tricks on people on Twitter or Facebook (trolling and spreading fake news - but nothing political, because even Crowley had a limit), via his state-of-the-art phone. He might not be on the clock anymore, but old habits die hard. None of the other demons quite got the hang of trolling, no matter how hard he tried to explain. Their loss.

When Aziraphale got lost in a good book, Crowley could stare at him and memorise the expressions as they flittered across his face. Crowley loved when it when he’d find a particularly funny passage and giggle to himself, completely unaware that Crowley was watching. He seemed so uninhibited, which the angel usually wasn’t. Aziraphale tended to get overly anxious, but the tension completely disappeared when he lost himself in a good book. He simply allowed himself to enjoy and savour, like he did with a good meal.

Crowley had never liked reading. He didn’t hate it, but even as an angel he hadn’t been the most studious. Now as a demon, with his snake-like eyes, his vision wasn’t the best. His eyes weren’t the same as an actual snake – he didn’t see in infrared – but his eyes weren’t ideal for fine detail or bright lights. The sunglasses did nothing to fix his imperfect sight, but they did hide his unnatural eyes and protect them from the bright lights of the modern world. He almost missed the candles and lanterns of the past.

He wished Aziraphale would read to him. But he didn’t ask. It was embarrassing that his eyes weren’t like the angel’s. Or like a human. He felt the loss of his divinity the more he thought about it, so he didn’t think about it. He avoided reading and when Aziraphale asked, he’d say that he was too cool for reading. He was a demon. Demons didn’t read.

* * *

It was a day like most others. They were both ensconced in the shop’s back room, avoiding the outside world for a moment. They’d found themselves at a bit of a loose ends, now that they had no apocalypse to prevent. It was boring really. Aziraphale had caught up on his reading a few months ago, and now was re-reading some favourites. But it was half-hearted at best.

Meanwhile, Crowley was tired of sleeping. He’d more than made up for the past decade of barely resting, trying to influence the child they’d thought was the Anti-Christ. Now, sleep was wearying.

Aziraphale sighed. Crowley, who’d been lounging, staring off into the distance, reliving the moment earlier when Aziraphale had smiled at him – but imagining a different ending that maybe involved some kissing – was snapped out of his daze.

“What’s wrong, angel?” He asked, sitting a little further upright to indicate his attention had been peaked.

“I’m feeling rather unentertained. Perhaps we should go for a walk?” Aziraphale suggested unenthusiastically.

“We went for a walk yesterday. And the day before. And the one before…” Crowley had seen all of London. From the moment it was built until the present day, he knew every inch. He couldn’t be bothered to wander the well-known streets for even a moment more. Being a being older than time had some downsides. Though he’d endure them all a thousand times for the upside of being graced with Aziraphale’s company for eternity.

“Alright. What did you have in mind then, my dear?” Aziraphale was watching him over his equally unnecessary (and adorable) glasses.

Crowley was reluctant to leave the warmth and comfort of the bookshop, even if he was bored to metaphorical death of it.

“I dunno.” He shrugged. Aziraphale sighed again.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to read something?”

He was so bored that he found himself agreeing.

“Do you have Shakespeare?” He hadn’t seen any Shakespeare plays for a while, and it was some of his favourite literature. Not for any particular reason, of course. Nothing at all to do with a smiling and giddy Aziraphale, wordlessly begging him to make Hamlet a hit. If he couldn’t go out and see a performance (he didn’t want to go alone, but Aziraphale was too fussy, having seen the original as it was 'supposed to be'. Very few performances lived up to his lofty expectations), reading would have to do. Even if his eyes would complain the entire time.

“Do I have Shakespeare?” Aziraphale hmphed. Crowley did have to admit it was a stupid question.

Aziraphale gestured at a rather precariously stacked pile of mismatched books. Crowley stood and approached with caution. If he toppled the books and any were damaged, Aziraphale would be devastated and Crowley didn’t need the sad puppy dog eyes right now.

The only Shakespeare he could find were the sonnets. Crowley looked down the pile again, but still, the sonnets were all he could find. He glanced around the shop, but he knew it was a lost cause. If there was a filing system, it was not something he’d managed to piece together in the countless hours he’d spent there. He didn’t even think Aziraphale knew his own system anymore.

He grabbed the sonnets from three quarters of the way down the pile, carefully holding the other books steady with a little miracle. It was an older book, and Crowley opened it to see a personal signature by the author himself. Crowley sat, slightly more upright than normal, to read. He flicked through, looking for the ones he knew best – of the many he knew too well – beginning with sonnet 112.

Aziraphale looked up from his own reading (a Jane Austen. Crowley never had much cared for her) and tsked.

“What?” He replied, perhaps a little too petulantly. He couldn’t be reading wrong, could he? He double checked that he wasn’t holding the book upside down or anything equally stupid. It all seemed alright to him.

“Shakespeare needs to be read aloud,” He declared, somewhat haughtily. Crowley resisted rolling his eyes.

“It’s just the sonnets, angel. If it were a play, I would agree. Unless you don’t want to be the Beatrice to my Benedick,” He teased.

Aziraphale glanced away, blush staining his cheeks. He turned back after a second, having regathered himself – from what, Crowley wasn’t sure.

“The sonnets need to be read aloud too. Especially so, to appreciate the meter and the rhyme. The emotion carries through the spoken word.” He’d closed his book, index finger acting as a temporary bookmark, and turned to watch the demon with a little smirk.

Aziraphale could be exceedingly condescending when he wanted to be. But then he’d grin like he was the perfect Heavenly messenger – so innocent and pure. The bastard knew exactly how to push all Crowley’s buttons.

“I don’t read aloud, angel. If you want them read, you can read them yourself.” He looked back at the book, thinking the matter closed. When he didn’t hear a rebuttal, he glanced up to see the angel still watching him.

“Fine, I will.” He placed his own book on his desk and reached to take the book from Crowley’s hands.

Crowley stuttered out a weak argument, but Aziraphale had already miracled the book straight out of his grasp before he could form a single coherent word.

Aziraphale looked at the sonnet he’d chosen to read, looked up at him with raised eyebrows, before beginning to read:

“Your love and pity doth the impression fill,

Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow;

For what care I who calls me well or ill,

So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?

You are my all-the-world, and I must strive

To know my shames and praises from your tongue;

None else to me, nor I to none alive,

That my steeled sense or changes right or wrong.

In so profound abysm I throw all care

Of others' voices, that my adder's sense

To critic and to flatterer stopped are.

Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:

You are so strongly in my purpose bred,

That all the world besides methinks y'are dead.”

Crowley was staring at the wall as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. To hear those words in Aziraphale’s voice was a torture he could barely stand, but he couldn’t stop him, because he couldn’t trust himself to say a word. He could feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t look at him, even through the protective layer of his glasses.

Aziraphale read the next sonnet, before he stopped again. Crowley swallowed and glanced at him through the corner of his eye. The angel was watching him with a contemplative expression that made Crowley want to turn back into a snake and slither out the door. But he didn’t. That would be too revealing. So, he sat there, awaiting Aziraphale’s judgement.

“These are some of my favourite sonnets,” Aziraphale commented quietly, “Very evocative.”

Crowley could only nod.

“Why those sonnets?”

“No reason. It was just where the book fell open to,” He lied, glad his voice stayed steady.

Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement but didn’t look convinced. He’d seen him flicking through the book.

“Shakespeare had a way with words, didn’t he? Such purposeful metaphor, inspiring such strong emotions…” Aziraphale trailed off.

Crowley had turned to look at him fully. He sat perfectly still though, worried if he moved Aziraphale might ask him questions.

“He was almost before his time, he was so wise in the ways of expressing himself.”

When Crowley didn’t reply, Aziraphale’s brow wrinkled and he pursed his lips.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

“’Course, I’m fine,” He laughed unconvincingly. Aziraphale looked at him, seeing through the lie easily.

“I thought you liked Shakespeare?” He seemed offended at the very idea that anyone could dislike the bard.

Crowley wanted to reassure him that he and Will had actually been fairly good friends – far more than Aziraphale knew. But if he protested, what excuse would he give?

Because those words – those poems of love and loss – were his words. Not all his words. Will had taken his feelings and spun them prettier than Crowley could have done, but the point still stood. And he didn’t want Aziraphale knowing that the inspiration had been him and the feelings that Crowley had struggled with for millennia by that point. That was just tragic.

Especially given it had been a few centuries since then and his pining only continued to get more and more pathetic.

Not all the sonnets were based on him, of course. Will had other friends and loves of his own to draw from. But there were some that he could hear his own voice in. Will had done a great job of concealing the truth in the prose, framing the religious undertones as metaphor, rather than the truth. Will hadn't known that Crowley was a demon of course, but he knew that he called Aziraphale 'angel' and everyone could feel the pure goodness radiating from him. 

“I liked Will well enough,” He grumbled, “But I don’t think he’s _that_ good.”

Aziraphale looked like he’d been slapped.

“How many other writers from that time do humans still read these days, exactly?” He asked, somewhat haughtily.

“Should we be using humans as a guide of what’s good? Do you remember trying to read Twilight?” Crowley asked him. Aziraphale had thrown the Twilight books in the bin, he was so disgusted by them. Aziraphale – who treated books almost as if they were as holy as he was. Crowley had sat through at least two rants about how lacking in any literary merit they were.

Crowley hadn’t minded them all that much (and said so, mostly just to see the look on Aziraphale’s face), though he wouldn’t say they were anywhere near the classics, of course. The movies were boring and vacuous, but plenty of movies were. He’d sat out of his favourite pastime – making movies based on books terrible – since he couldn’t imagine they would be that good, even without his influence. He’d been right. They were abysmal. 

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale looked contrite enough. Crowley cut him off before he could begin on yet another rant on teenage werewolves falling in love with a human _and_ her newborn vampire child. Crowley wished he’d thought of that. Or at least taken credit with Hell. He’d have been a hero.

“Will was great, OK? Some of his stuff was better than others, but he was great.”

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, pacified.

“I helped him write ‘Much Ado About Nothing’,” He blurted, proudly. Crowley stared at him, baffled.

“You did?”

Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically.

“I even played Beatrice, once. It was rather fun.” He looked somewhat embarrassed, but Crowley was too busy still being floored by the confession. Much Ado was his favourite play. He felt a great sympathy and affinity for Benedick in particular. The image of Aziraphale literally playing the Beatrice to his Benedick had him lost in a daydream for a moment. He snapped out of it to see a rather adorably flustered angel looking at him nervously. He wanted to soothe some of the embarrassment, so he made a confession of his own.

“I helped him write some of the sonnets. Those couple you read, but a few others as well,” He stuttered a little and shut himself up by biting his tongue, so as not to give too much away. He needed to play this cool.

“Really?” Aziraphale looked as shocked as Crowley felt.

“Yep.” He looked away from Aziraphale again, too uncomfortable to see the angel’s reaction.

“They’re beautiful. Truly.” He sounded so sincere, but then, he usually did. Usually. Crowley sometimes wished he hadn’t taught him how to be sarcastic. But it was so amusing, when it wasn’t directed at him. “But…” He stopped abruptly.

Crowley risked a glance at him to see him chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully. Crowley hesitated too. There was clearly something that the angel wanted to say but couldn’t or wouldn’t. Aziraphale tended to speak his mind just as much as Crowley, though with far more tact. If he was hesitating, it must be something big. 

“But, what?” Crowley pressed.

“But they’re romantic?” His inflection went up at the end, making the statement sound like a question. Crowley didn’t know how to answer.

_‘Who are they about?’_

Because the answer was Aziraphale. It always had been, and it always would be. There was no other being that compared – no angel, demon or human came close.

“You knew Will. He always had to make things flowery and overly dramatic,” He scoffed.

“I suppose,” He said slowly, as if mulling over the possibility. Crowley needed to act fast if he was going to get out before Aziraphale decided to start an interrogation.

“Anyway, angel. It’s been nice, but I should get going.” He stood and by the time he’d finished his sentence, he was through the doorway to the backroom, making his way through the shop. He stopped at the front door and looked back to see Aziraphale watching him, but not following. Crowley gave a little wave and an overly enthusiastic, “See you later.”

Aziraphale gave a bewildered farewell, just as the front door closed with a click and the tinkle of the bell. Crowley pulled the Bentley away from the bookshop, looking in the rear-view mirror, seeing Aziraphale standing in the window. He was watching him speeding off and looking equal parts hurt and confused.

Crowley tried not to think about it.

* * *

He found his way back to the bookshop far sooner than he felt comfortable with. He’d wanted to give Aziraphale time to forget the entire sonnet thing, but he was bored and too used to spending time with the angel to stay away for long.

He’d become worryingly dependent on his company. It felt like only a decade ago that they could go years without seeing each other and be just fine. The feeling of missing Aziraphale was always there, but it had been background noise to his existence. He’d barely even noticed it, until he saw him again and all the feelings came rushing back.

Now, since all the time they spent together after the birth of the Anti-Christ, it was like missing a limb. Or so he assumed, never having lost a limb in all his many corporations.

He walked in and Aziraphale came bustling out of the backroom at the sound of the bell. He had his stern ‘customers beware’ face on, until he saw who it was.

He always smiled at Crowley as if he’d just made his day, even before Crowley did anything to please him. And he did do everything he could to please him. Crowley wanted to resent the fact that he’d do just about anything to get Aziraphale to smile, but if the reward for being pathetic was a radiant smile, Crowley would be the most pitiful creature to ever exist. He’d act like a clown if it amused him.

He really was utterly tragic.

“Hi angel,” Crowley greeted as casually as he could. He let himself into the backroom, not worried about if Aziraphale was following or not. He collapsed on the couch, legs akimbo. Aziraphale hovered in the doorway awkwardly.

Crowley glanced at him, about to tell him to either sit or go away, when he saw Aziraphale's eyes flick over to the desk. He followed the gaze, intrigued by the furtive action. A new, mass produced copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets sat innocently on the desk, pages marked with countless scraps of paper. Crowley could see Aziraphale’s neat cursive adorning each scrap as they disappeared between the pages. He couldn’t make out a single word with his eyesight, but it was clearly commentary on each sonnet.

Intrigued, Crowley looked back up to see Aziraphale looking incredibly sheepish. He didn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. Not that he would have been able to, through the glasses.

He should just ignore it. He knew he should. This could only lead to disaster, but the opportunity to tease him was so incredibly tempting. A demon just couldn’t resist such an opening. It would go against his very nature.

“A spot of light reading?” He gestured at the book with a cocky smirk.

“Ah, yes,” He quickly strode across the tiny space and grabbed the book, putting it on a shelf, out of Crowley’s sight and reach. He sat stiffly in the armchair, still avoiding looking at Crowley.

“Enjoying it?” He asked. He was terrified of the answer, but something inside him was compelling him to prod.

“Of course.” He finally looked at Crowley. His cheeks were slightly pink, and his eyes darted around Crowley’s face, barely settling anywhere before moving on.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“I think I can tell which are yours,” Aziraphale commented idly. His eyes had come to rest on Crowley’s glasses. Their eyes weren’t really meeting, but it was close enough that Crowley still felt a little uncomfortable. He felt like he was under scrutiny.

“They’re not really mine. Will just took a few things I might have said and embellished...” That wasn’t strictly true. He and Will had spent hours and hours together, laughing, joking, drinking to excess and Crowley spilling his deepest secrets about how head over heels he was for Aziraphale. Will had listened and every day after another one of their get togethers, he’d shown Crowley the new sonnets that he’d somehow crafted from Crowley’s nonsensical ramblings.

It had been embarrassing, but it had also been nice having his love written so beautifully. And to have it finally acknowledged by another living being. Being in love with Aziraphale had hurt sometimes, knowing it could never be. But the good always outweighed the bad. Will had put the good into flowing lines and it had soothed Crowley’s ache - for a time.

“Will you tell me which are yours?”

“Why?” Crowley didn’t want him to know. It would be too risky and reveal too much.

“I’m just interested, that’s all.” He pouted, looking away. It was his disappointed face, the one that always had Crowley crumpling like a cheap paper napkin. The same face he used to make Hamlet a success. Damn William Shakespeare.

Why did he have to do the face?

“There’s a few. The ones you read out loud. A few others. Some of the ones in the 30’s. None that are particularly good or anything. None of the really famous ones.” He shrugged. Crowley had never been more uncomfortable in his incredibly long existence. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

“Oh! I thought so. The religious imagery was very appropriate.” He seemed excited to have guessed correctly the ones Crowley had a hand in. Meanwhile, Crowley was sinking deeper and deeper into despair. Aziraphale knew him too well. It was only a matter of time before he figured it out. He needed to stop the conversation before it went too much further, but he didn’t know how. He felt tongue tied

“They’re beautiful, my dear. Whether you put the words to paper or not, you should be proud. Humans have admired those words for generations.”

Crowley had never blushed. But if he was going to, he would be at that moment.

“Whoever you or Will wrote them for, they’re lucky,” He smiled at Crowley. But it didn’t reach his wide, innocent blue eyes. Crowley looked at him. Really looked, examining the angel. He looked dejected. The smile on his face was weak and brittle.

Was he jealous? Suddenly it made sense. As soon as Crowley had mentioned writing the sonnets with Will, Aziraphale had been acting weird.

“Angel, you know that Will liked you?”

Not in a romantic sense. Crowley had been the one going on and on about how beautiful and kind Aziraphale was. Will had listened patiently and sympathised, but his affections lay elsewhere. Good thing too, or Crowley wouldn’t have been able to stand it. That there were people who weren’t desperately in love with Aziraphale was a mystery to Crowley. He was the most perfect creature to ever exist – how could anyone not love him?

But anyone who dared fall in love with him was also a hostile invader on Crowley’s territory and would be treated as such.

“I like to think we were good friends. We had a lot of fun writing Much Ado, anyway.”

“Friends?”

“Of course,” He sighed exasperated, as if it were obvious. Then an epiphany seemed to strike him, and he gasped, “You don’t think I was interested in him romantically, do you?”

Crowley felt like an idiot. He didn’t know how to answer, so he stayed silent and shrugged at him, as if it didn’t matter.

“My dear, humans aren’t of interest to me.” He seemed appalled by the very suggestion. If he had pearls, he’d be clutching them.

“Yeah, of course they aren’t,” He laughed as if he’d known that all along. He was completely lost. Why was Aziraphale sad then?

“Were you and William..?” Aziraphale asked gently after a moment. It seemed to hurt him to ask, but he couldn’t seem to help needing to ask. It took Crowley by surprise. Why would he think that?

“No,” Crowley shook his head violently, “Humans and demons don’t mix. They’re fun to tempt, but that’s it.”

They lapsed into an awkward silence. Neither could look at the other for more than a moment.

“Celestial face…” Aziraphale mused out loud. His eyes snapped to Crowley’s face suddenly – seriously – and frightening him.

“What?”

“Full many a glorious morning have I seen

Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,

Kissing with golden face the meadows green,

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride

With ugly rack on his celestial face,

And from the forlorn world his visage hide,

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:

Even so my sun one early morn did shine,

With all triumphant splendour on my brow;

But out, alack, he was but one hour mine,

The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;

Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.” Aziraphale recited from memory. He had obviously been studying the sonnets extensively.

“Uhhh,” Crowley croaked.

“It’s a metaphor, of course. About the sun. But it’s about me, isn’t it? The sonnet?” He was staring at Crowley, who wanted very much to disappear.

“I mean, I don’t know. Who knows what Will was thinking when he wrote them?”

“But it’s one of yours, isn’t it?”

“Pfft. No. Why would it be?” He struggled to control his voice. It wavered dangerously, but he hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately, he wasn’t so lucky.

“Crowley, my dear. Please don’t lie to me. I know you too well.”

“I’m not lying. I don’t lie. I’ve never lied before,” He lied.

“You’re lying right now,” Aziraphale frowned at him. He was angry. Crowley didn’t blame him.

“Angel, please. Just let it go.”

“Benedick was based on you. I wrote him for you.”

He’d written a Shakespeare character for him?

It all seemed too good to be true.

“Really?” He croaked, sounding more like Ligur than himself.

“Yes. And Beatrice was me. Clearly.”

Crowley failed to see exactly how that was clear at all. In fact, it was about as opaque as a slab of concrete. But Crowley couldn’t say anything, too busy trying to process what any of it meant. He had no idea what was happening. Aziraphale had discovered the truth and hadn’t thrown him out of the shop. He hadn’t said ‘_We’re not even friends, why would you think I would love you_?’. He hadn’t laughed at him.

“My dear, have you really cared for me for so long?” Aziraphale took a deep breath, apparently gathering strength, “Because I have. I have loved you for so long I’ve forgotten what it felt like to not love you.”

Crowley had died. There was no way this was happening. Except Aziraphale was still looking at him softly, waiting for a response.

“Ngk,” He said, nodding

“My dear,” Aziraphale stood and Crowley watched him wearily as he sat beside him on the couch. He reached out a hand and placed it gingerly on Crowley’s knee.

“Is this alright?” He asked. Crowley could only nod again. Aziraphale smiled gently at him, a soft, beautiful, gentle smile. Crowley felt himself melting.

“I love you too, angel,” He whispered. He wanted to shout it from the rooftops, but for now, this would have to do. And when the small, gentle smile transformed on Aziraphale’s face to a beaming grin - more radiant than Crowley had ever seen before - he felt like it was worth it.

One day, he’d say it proudly, declaring it to anyone who was listening. But it would take some practice.

Aziraphale leaned in to give him a peck on the cheek and Crowley knew that perhaps he’d be spending more time in his angel’s bookshop in the future - and maybe not just daydreaming of kissing his angel, either.

**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone else think, as romantic as Aziraphale seems, it would be Crowley writing the endless love poems? They might not be good, but he's definitely written some. Convince me I'm wrong.
> 
> Any opinions on authors or works mentioned in this story belong to Crowley and Aziraphale, not me. Blame them if they offended you. For example, Jane Austen is amazing and Crowley is wrong. 
> 
> I'm no Shakespeare expert. All my sonnet knowledge is Googled. If I have gotten anything wrong, please, please, let me know. Except I know Much Ado was written before Hamlet. But whatever. 
> 
> If you haven't seen David as Benedick, I highly recommend it. Plus, it has Catherine Tate as Beatrice. God I love those two. Doctor Donna forever. 
> 
> I haven't really edited this because I had a nightmare of a time writing it. It kept getting longer and more uncooperative and I couldn't stop it. Does that happen to anyone else?


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